FAŁSZYWI PROROCY

The world in which “our boys” grew up smelled of cigarettes, cheap beer, and the illusion of power. Back then, it seemed that the basement and the water tower were the center of the universe, and heroism was measured by the number of scars and debts. But time passes, and suddenly you realize: there is no “street” in these pretensions - only darkness and senseless spinning in the mud.

Now everything is different - not because it has become “whiter” or more correct, but because fatigue from rock bottom brings clarity. Once I wanted to be “that guy with the Rolex,” now it's enough just to be alive, with hands that don't shake from cheap highs and eyes that no longer hold malice.

In this sound, there is a sobering up after a prolonged delirium, where each line is like a blow to the old self. Bitter, honest, but in a sense liberating.